


Your Timing's Right

by strangerthanfic



Series: You Fit Together [2]
Category: Lost in Space (TV 2018)
Genre: Barebacking, Dirty Talk, F/M, Frottage, Penis In Vagina Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sharing Clothes, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 07:02:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23347378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangerthanfic/pseuds/strangerthanfic
Summary: Sharing a bunk with Don West doesn't mean you'll be in it together that often--but when you are, you make the most of the time you've got.
Relationships: Don West/Reader
Series: You Fit Together [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1059611
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	Your Timing's Right

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, friends! If you're back for more, I hope you enjoy--this story follows You Like Me Too in the same AU, but can be read independently or out of order.
> 
> I tagged F/M even though the reader's gender is never mentioned--hard to indicate up front that reader has a vagina without having to resort to default "F," damn it.
> 
> There will be more of this series! Thanks so much for the kind words and kudos, though I am too shy to reply!

You stumble in without turning on the light, yanking your shirt off by the collar. It’s one of his— pretty much the only clothes you don’t share are pants, because he complains that he can’t fit into yours and it’s not fair if you get double the wardrobe when his gets halved.

Speaking of which, you’re too tired to undress further. Half-naked and pants unzipped, you flop into bed.

“Fwuh?” his tousled head lifts as several of your limbs thud onto his body.

“I need to sleep,” you say into the pillow. “And then I need to fuck.”

As you plunge into unconsciousness you hear him say, “Well, now I’m awake.”

**

Your eyelids drag upwards like rusted hatches. Why?

The bed is empty. That’s why.

Blearily, you angle your eyes around until they snag on the bulkhead right next to the pillows.

A dry-erase scrawl reads: BACK SOON.

Grumbling, you pass out again.

**

Surfacing, a moment.

His voice outside, answering someone’s question.

He says no, you didn’t kick him out, nor were you fucking—that’s just how he looks.

He says he tries not to finish arguments by sexing you up, because if something interrupts before you finish, you both get even madder.

Then he’s jostling into bed next to you, grumbling because whoever it was in the corridor didn’t laugh, took his joke as serious advice.

“Since when am I the fucking Elder, here?” he grouses, belatedly shucking off his coverall.

You’re out again before he finishes talking, the noise soothing you back to dreamless sleep.

**

The next time you wake up, your leg is wrapped tight around his waist, and you’re humping his side.

It’s clear from the twinge in your lower back that you’ve been doing it for a while.

“I love when you get horny in your sleep,” he says, disgustingly awake.

You cram your face between his shoulder and the pillows. His skin is always three degrees hotter than yours. “I’m gonna regret asking this, but; what’s the difference from when I’m horny awake?”

“You just go straight for friction, no warm-up at all. I love it. I’ve got a lucky hip.”

“Might not get lucky at all,” you grumble, poking his chest. “I thought I made myself clear.”

“Hey, I left a note.”

“Two words.”

“I would’ve done a smiley face too, but I was worried it would give the wrong impression,” he says. “And I don’t know how to draw this.”

He waits for you to unearth your face, then bites his lower lip and smolders. You can see how his artistic abilities might’ve fallen short of conveying said expression.

Then he waggles his eyebrows and you groan, stuff your head back into the pillows.

Schedules have gone bugfuck since everybody started following their own circadian rhythms, but it’s still too early for this shit.

Unruffled by your mood, he kisses along your cheekbone to your ear, where he murmurs, “I’ve got a hypothesis.”

“Been hanging around too many scientists,” you garble without moving. Mm, his mouth is nice on your ear. It should stay there.

“I think I can tell how wet you are just by how you move your hips.”

…Guess you can think of a few other nice places for his mouth to go.

Sleeplessness lingers like a headache, but your internal clock has learned to obey your speeding heart. Even if it’s arousal waking you up this time, and not danger. Unable to decide which is better, you groan, stuck.

“Wanna help me test it?” he asks, then starts to use his teeth.

God yes, you do.

You burrow until your lips find the crook between his neck and shoulder. Never fails to annoy you how good he smells to you—there was a time when you had standards that involved aftershave and conditioner. Of course, the sex is way better now so what the hell did you know then? Breathless, you say, “I’m not sure your methods sound rigorous enough to count as science.”

“I’ll show you rigorous.” His fingers slide down your back, beneath your unzipped pants to tickle the cleft of your ass as he encourages you closer. Makes you mold against him from thigh to ribcage and clench.

“Seriously, though, what’s your metric for slickness?” You stutter as those knowing fingers dig into where your ass meets your leg, then slip around and inward to rub the tendons of your inner thigh. Your legs ease farther apart around his hips, hinting for him to reach farther. Stubble scrapes your lip as he bites his own, enjoying playing you like a fiddle. Making you wetter with just a few simple touches. 

His voice drops to just a rumble against your chest, a breath across your mouth. “I’m guessing that’s about a level four.”

“I mean, what’s your basis for—ah!—comparison?” you demand. Coyly avoiding your lips no matter how you struggle to kiss him, he presses against you everywhere else. In spite of this, he shoves here and there, slowly finessing your pants down around your knees without bothering to give himself any more space to work in.

“Sounds like a five point six,” he jokes. You tickle him hard, and he slaps your hand, grunting a laugh. “But that’s a fair point,” he continues. “Nothing compares to you.” 

Finally, he plants a precise, snuggling kiss to the corner of your mouth, scraping his nails along your bare hips in harsh counterpoint. The spark of contrast has you swallowing a frustrated sob. If you’d wanted dry friction and sore muscles, you would’ve kept digging around in the crawlspaces.

Then he hauls you on top of him, threading a leg between yours to kick off your pants completely. He licks a wet stripe up your neck, cooling quickly just like the slick between your exposed legs.

“Fuck, finally,” you say.

Before you can demand more skin, he rucks his shirt up, exposing his belly and chest. Strong hands smooth up your back then knead your shoulders, pulling you flush to thick muscle and pleasantly scratchy hair.

For a while, you float, tucking your feet under the backs of his knees, letting him sip at your mouth and massage your shoulders, your ribs. This is better than the slow-motion syrup of sleep, more restful even than the relief of a successful troubleshooting session. Everything around you feels good and you don’t even have to fight for it. You’ve needed this. And it’s so sweet that for all his dirty promises, he seems content just to give it to you.

Eventually, the hard heat of his cock grazing the crease of your hip every time you twist into the kiss starts to twist the tension in you again. His briefs—that he only bothers to wear when he’s in the coverall he stripped off earlier—have worked down enough from all the writhing to get him naked to mid-thigh.

That, you need to do something about.

With a needy noise, you shuffle your knees to lift and try to ease him inside you.

But he catches your hips before you get too far.

“Not done with your mouth,” he mumbles into the kiss.

Still too tired and too worked up to be teased, you whine in protest.

He hums a soothing note, blending a series of toothy kisses into one. He rocks beneath you until his cock lies flat against his stomach, parting your vulva to nestle between.

“Fuck, you’re so…” He trails off, panting.

You wriggle a little, relaxing again with all the sensation trickling through you. “Mm, feels good—what level am I at, huh?”

He says, “That’s a—oh—that’s m-maybe a twenty.”

“Twenty out of what? What’s the range?”

He half-laughs and half-whines, visibly deciding whether to bother to keep the banter going. “Uh, five?” he hazards.

You dissolve into giggles with him, sparks drifting lazily though your body when hair or nails scrape certain places gently.

He says, “You don’t gotta understand my system, but you can’t argue with the results.”

Then he digs his fingers into your back and rolls his pelvis, sliding the length of him all along the slick ache of you, cockhead catching your entrance, but not sliding inside. He does it over and over again, keeping you sprawled on top of him without a sign he cares about going any further.

After a while, it gets a little maddening—makes you clench and hump and tremble. You’re getting him all wet. It’s like he wants to be covered in you, melt together; doesn’t even care about water rationing and no showers, just wants to make a mess.

You don’t have TIME for this.

…You never want to stop.

“We don’t have time for this,” you find yourself blurting, strain showing in your voice.

He retorts, voice dark, “You were asleep so deep I could’ve fucked you awake.”

Grinding and licking kisses along his neck, you whimper.

He continues, “You have no idea what time it is, trust me, it’s not too late for anything.”

You don’t have to know the hour to know some things always come too late, and there’s never really time for anything good. 

He must see the look on your face, or feel the sadness in your body, the differing tension, because he smacks a silly, loud kiss beneath your chin and speeds up his hips.

Head tipped back, hoarse and panting, he adds, “Anyway, really, we’re contributing science. It counts. I wrote some of it down.”

Your mouth leaves his skin with a pop, lifting onto your elbows. “Notes on how to make me come are floating around this ship?!” you squeak.

He doesn’t stop moving, stop rubbing. Just takes the opportunity to stroke your breasts. He says, “Nah, lost ‘em with that rucksack back on…whazzit, the planet with all the really shiny sand.”

The hair raises on the back of your neck. “Notes on how to make me come are floating around IN THE UNIVERSE?!”

The chances that someone out here might find his notes are slim to none—not to mention the odds that they’d read English—or Spanish, or Italian, or a smattering of Japanese, because he’s a casual polyglot but would never admit it.

Still, you feel a tantalizing chill of exposure. Are you getting off on those totally tiny odds? Is this exhibitionism? What even-?

A tongue slipping between your fingers is a pretty effective distraction. So is the thumb circling your wet clit, darting in just after every time his cockhead slides out of the way.

Around your fingers, he says, “Don’t worry, don’t worry—nobody but me could use ‘em, anyway. Wouldn’t work for anybody else.” Then he presses your licked fingers to his chest as a request, and when you circle his nipple his rhythm hitches.

Nobody but him, huh? An extra warmth, inside all this riotous heat…Your eyes sink shut with the strength of it. You whisper, “Why’s that?”

Rough, swollen lips brush your ear and his voice goes positively subterranean as he tells you, “Because of the secret variable: How much I like doing it to you.”

Infuriating pleasure squeals through you, a giddy liquid squeeze in body and heart, and you shudder, hide your face. “Stop talking, stop talking,” you babble, “I’ll come…”

Stubble scrapes a mark up your neck as he adds, “Because of how much I love doing it to you. And how much you love hearing how much I love it, don’t you.”

In a panic of riveted embarrassment, pinned against him and with the eyes of the universe on you, you gasp, “West—Donny!”

“There it is,” he rumbles. The dark appreciation bursts through you.

You’re still rippling with a confusingly bright orgasm when he slides fully into you and fucks you straight into a second one.

That makes everything make sense again.

Or at least obliterates your ability to question, for a while. Not much can do that, anymore—lately, no threat of death, however immediate, can take you totally out of your head.

But right now, you’re just a creature resting against another, trusted creature, acknowledging your erratic heart without counting beats—sucking in air and feeling your blood rush where it needs to. In this state, your skin ought to generate light.

You trace his edges with your palms until you come down enough to use words.

“See what you could’ve been doing for hours if you hadn’t skipped out on our bed?” you tease.

“Hours?” he wheezes.

“What were you working on, anyway?”

Grinning, he rolls his head to murmur in your ear, “Fixing the showers.”

You fling a modesty blanket over both your heads and drag him out the door.


End file.
